THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



375 



sweet singing of wrens and accentors 

 in the shrubberies so pleasing to the 

 ear ; but now a great silence has begun 

 to cast its glamour over all. 



No more the buoyant carolling of 

 happy birds, no longer the incessant 

 hum of countless insects, " a wailful 

 choir the small gnats mourn." Hushed 

 all the music of the gladsome Summer 

 time. A different note now breaks the 

 stillness ; it is whispered by the falling 

 leaf, we hear it in the plaintive cries of 

 passing birds, louder in the stubble, 

 what a clamouring and commotion there ; 

 louder still, the rocking and creaking 

 of the half-stripped trees as Boreas, the 

 great north-easter, shrieks through them 

 in spasms of gathering fury, scattering 

 everjr^vhere the withered leaves and 

 snapped dead twigs. 



Not long since I found a belated bee 

 clinging to a faded flower in my httle 

 garden ; it scarcely moved when I 

 breathed upon it, for its strength was 

 failing fast. Night set in with a numbing 

 cold. When I went again nex't morning 

 the blossom had fallen, the blossom 

 where a merciful drowsiness overtook it 

 in a last vain search for food, and beneath 

 it the bee lay stiff, many a dead leaf near, 

 their life-work at an end. 



Many nests among the bushes look as 

 good as on the day they were built, though 

 it is long since the fledglings left them. 

 Whole families have joined the general 

 exodus to the stubbles, far from the 

 favoured haunts where they chirped and 

 whistled and sang so long. Thrushes, 

 tits, hedge-sparrows and robins remain 

 to dispute the stores of berries and seeds 

 with the immigrant strangers from colder 

 climes, who have now begun to put in 

 an appearance in the depopulated bird 

 quarters. Harmony has given place to 

 squabbling and pecking. No mild affair 

 the struggle for existence when Winter sets 

 in in earnest, and food supplies dwindle. 

 What between hungry "" blackies " and 

 fieldfares, and incessant persecution by 

 the lesser birds, friend " stormcock " 

 has an anxious time over the delectable 

 berry ; " ' the fewer guests the merrier ' 

 saith the instinct of the bird." 



Gulls are grouped together on tlie 

 pasture like white statues ; every now 

 and then one rises to rob a hapless peewit 



of its worm. Rooks straddle about, 

 inquisitive, with grotesque airs of self- 

 importance. Noisier than ever, their 

 language adds a feature to the season, an 

 odd jargon of the queerest croaks and 

 gurgles. Grey crows seem to consort a 

 good deal just now with their black 

 brethren. November is said to be the 

 month when rooks revisit their old nests 

 to repair them, but apparently nothing 

 so serious occupies the rook mind. As 

 a matter of fact, observation finds him 

 greatly addicted to tomfoolery amongst 

 his sticks. What prodigious numbers 

 of sparrows and finches have assembled 

 in the fields ! Whole congregations of 

 twittering linnets and dense flocks of 

 starlings rise from the stubble ! The 

 migratory instinct and its concomitant 

 restlessness explain these immense fore- 

 gatherings of birds and the hubbub 

 which ensues. A great fuss they make 

 over the going, always bidding excited 

 good-byes, and then coming back again 

 and again to say something more before 

 finally taking leave. It is no light under- 

 taking, their annual pilgrimage ; many will 

 never return. Conceive the difficulties 

 and life risks of a journey across the 

 trackless ocean, through raging storms 

 and in the darkness of the night ! It is 

 well known that certain migratory birds 

 travel distances greater even than ten 

 thousand miles ! Look at a map and 

 think of a journey from the Arctic to 

 New Zealand ! Even more wonderful 

 is the speed at which they travel, often 

 exceeding one hundred miles an hour — 

 " the dotterel sups at sunset on the North 

 African steppes and breakfasts next morn- 

 ing on the Arctic Tundra ! " For days 

 on end, without interruption, whole square 

 miles of birds may be seen winging their 

 way high up in the heavens. Marvellous 

 indeed this wing-power, and amazing the 

 sense of direction. 



Heavy rains and floods soak the 

 country like a sponge and soil the beauty 

 of the tall autumn flowers. Colour is 

 fading fast in the herbaceous border. 

 The yellow evening primrose, the helian- 

 thus and the golden rod have lost their 

 lustre. Phloxes and anemones have shed 

 their whites and pinks ; the giant holly- 

 hocks are dying down. A few more 

 days and the glowing scarlet of the torch 



